


Valley of the (Intellectual) Giants

by Nathaniel_Quietly



Category: X-Men (Comicverse), X-Men - All Media Types, X-Men: First Class (Comics)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-19
Updated: 2016-10-24
Packaged: 2018-08-23 08:55:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8321761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nathaniel_Quietly/pseuds/Nathaniel_Quietly
Summary: Teen aged Hank McCoy gets invited to participate in a Summer Superscience Workshop, led by Mr. Fantastic.





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've posted the first two chapters of this work before, but removed them for personal reasons. I am once again pursuing this story, and will be updating regularly until completion.

Henry P. "Hank" McCoy, the bouncing ebullient Beast, bounded through the foyer of Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters wildly waving a sheet of paper like a flag of surrender in one meaty, overlarge hand, its envelope torn apart and forgotten on the stoop outside. The floor alone could not contain his excitement; he careened through the expansive entry hall, boomeranging off the walls and ceiling, flipping and somersaulting with acrobatic exuberance.

"Professor! Professor! I got in! I got the acceptan-"

-was all he could announce before he was eating a snowball the size of a watermelon. The impact caught him midair, knocking him off-balance and sending him toppling to the ground, narrowly missing the ornate accent table Jean had decided they all needed a few weeks ago.

Using his free hand to mop the soft, sopping moisture from his face, and keeping the missive an arm's length away from the marauding moisture, he glared at his asinine assailant. 

"Bobby," he growled.

Fifteen-year-old Bobby Drake leaned in the doorway that led into the opulent first-floor common room, lazily juggling a couple of smaller snowballs in one hand, the other cradled in the pit of his elbow. He was wearing his school uniform, a tight-fitting blue and gold number stitched from unstable molecules that froze and defrosted along with his own skin. His mop of muddy brown hair hung loose and full in a Davey Jones cut, almost dipping into his icicle-blue eyes, and his face wore the same easy grin it always did when he was making mischief. It was a grin Hank - all of the house's inhabitants, truth told - was familiar with.

"Beasty!" the boy exclaimed. "Or would you prefer Hanky? You need one, by the way - you've got something on your face." 

Hank sighed, fighting to maintain his composure. He was the elder, after all, and while he occasionally enjoyed engaging in his younger teammate's animated antics, now was not the time. He had serious business with their shared mentor. He readjusted the spectacles the snowball had knocked askew and said in a calm, reassuring tone, "You got me, Bobby. Well played. Now if you'll excuse me, I have important news to share with Charles."

Bobby straightened, the snowballs he'd been manipulating forgotten; the plopped softly to the varnished wooden floor. "Really? What is it, I wanna see."

Hank was beginning to stand. "I'm sure the Professor will make a telepathic PA broadcast once I've shared this with him."

"He probably already knows, pal, the big man's psychic. But I'm not, and I wanna SEE!" On the word "see", the youth threw up an arm gunslinger-style, cannoning a basketball-sized chunk of snow and ice at Hank. 

The big mutant immediately fell backward, balancing himself on his free hand and kicking his legs up and out, throwing the specially-ordered brown leather loafers off his feet and up into the air. He then caught the speeding projectile in his toes, lobbing it gently over himself while pushing the now-wrinkled letter into the pocket of his sport coat, before completing his momentum and somersaulting to his feet. He caught the icy sphere on the index finger of his right hand, giving it a gentle spin, then reached first to his right, then his left, meaty digits extended to catch his falling loafers. He gave Bobby an expectant look over the top of his spectacles, ball twirling like a globe in one hand, shoes hanging comfortably in the other.

"Did you really think that would work, lad?" He asked.

Bobby crossed his arms, face folding into an unfamiliar frown. "Show off," he muttered.


	2. 2

Hank straightened his tie and wiped once again at his face as he approached Professor Xavier's private chambers. His upper torso was already anhydrous, and he knew it; still, he kept checking his cheeks, his hair, the shoulders of his striped sport coat. He was nervous, he admitted to himself. Getting In had been a big accomplishment. Of course the professor would be proud. The professor WAS proud. 

Right?

For comfort reasons, he'd left his shoes back in the foyer. He wasn't a fan of footwear; anything that encumbered his natural acrobatics earned his eternal ire. He wore them when necessity dictated; in public, and occasionally around the mansion, during the day when they might have unexpected guests (Warren's parents "popped by" every other Thursday, it seemed, and Jean's kid sister would come over on the weekends and moon over Bobby). But here, in the professor's private wing, he felt his mutantcy was welcomed, that his bared feet could even be seen as a sign of respect. 

Then again, he was so well dressed, and the shoes matched his belt...

He put it out of his mind, gave his unruly brunette curls a final spit-smooth, and raised a knuckle to knock on the professor's chamber door when a deep, resonating voice rolled through his mind without having entered his ears:

"Come in, Henry."

Every. Single. Time, he thought, even though Xavier surely heard that as well.

Hank turned the knob, and entered the professor's private study.


	3. 3

The Study - always capitalized in Hank's mind, a proper name for a Proper Room - was lit more brightly than he was used to seeing. The professor had pulled back the billowing cerise drapes that so often covered the floor to ceiling windows set into the north and west walls; thick, golden tiebacks held them firmly open. The afternoon sun of late spring cascaded through the crystalline glass and pooled, deep and rich, over the walls of bookshelves that lines the room and onto the heavy maple floor. 

The Professor was not, as Hank would have guessed, behind his desk; instead he sat next to the west window, a plaid blanket stretched and tucked cozily across his legs, holding a book and idly flipping pages at irregular intervals, his eyes half-lidded. He looked half asleep, sunlight casting off his glabrous pate, but Hank knew better - the professor often "listened" to writers he enjoyed while they worked on a project, preferring to get the work directly from the source. The book in hand was just a prop, meant to alleviate concerns as to the strength and breadth of his telepathy. Hank was both proud and mildly worried that he'd deduced his mentor's secret so early in his time at the school.

After a moment, the professor's eyes opened wide and he graced Hank with a warm smile. "I apologize," he said by way of greeting. "I caught Sir Ian Fleming forming the plot for what might be the next Bond novel, and I was quite absorbed." Of course the professor knew that Hank knew. It was another thought that both thrilled and alarmed him. No secrets, ever. But what was there to be secretive about?

"I thought I'd get out from behind the desk," the professor said, answering another of Hank's unspoken questions. "Stretch my legs, as it were." The Professor chuckled to himself, while Hank managed an uneasy grin. After a moment, Xavier stopped, smiling at Hank kindly. "Sorry. I feel I present myself as a little humorless at times. Perhaps it's because humor is not my forte." He tilted his head slightly, a soft smile still tugging the corners of his mouth. "I gather from your...ebullient conversation with Iceman downstairs, that you have news."

Hank nodded, his face breaking into an excited grin despite himself. "I'm sure you know," he said, sheepishly pulling the crumpled epistle from his jacket pocket. 

"Stuff and nonsense," Xavier replied, turning his chair with expert aplomb and wheeling the remaining few feet to his oldest student. "I gathered that your application was accepted by the vigor with which it was received, and no more." He extended a hand, palm up, eyes gleaming. "May I see it?"

Hank beamed. "Of course, Professor." He handed the missive to Xavier with elation. 

"Henry," the Professor mock-chided, "you're my oldest and brightest student. Please, call me Charles." Xavier straighter the disheveled dispatch on his quilted knees and read.

"Dear HENRY PHILLIP MCOY (Hank's name was written in an elegant cursive over a blank, bold line, distinct from the typed words that followed),

"It is my honor and privilege to invite you to join myself and your fellow superscientists at my annual ReedTalks - a two-week think tank and workshop held in the prestigious Baxter Building, dedicated to intensive scientific discovery and problem solving. 

"Enclosed within you'll find a special belt buckle encoded with your electronic visitor's pass, allowing access to the top five floors of the Baxter Building and conference room. This belt buckle is also keyed to your guest quarters, so don't lose it!

"If you require assistance getting to New York, please call our toll free number. Our automated response unit, A.U.N.T.I.E., will route an Intercontinental Passenger Missile to your location for pick-up. 

"Congratulations - we look forward to your arrival!

"Cordially, Reed Richards - Founder, Fantastic Four Unlimited"

Beneath the type-written form letter was a note, scribbled out in quick, fluid writing:

"Henry - can't wait to meet the youngest person ever accepted to the program!! -RR"

The Professor - Charles - looked up with a fatherly smile. He offered his hand again. "This is quite an achievement, son," he said. "I trust you have a suitcase packed?"

Hank grinned again as he enveloped his mentor's hand in his own to shake it. He couldn't help it - the whole affair hadn't felt real, had not solidified until just now. "I have a couple, sir. Do I need to pack my uniform?" 

Xavier tossed of a dismissive wave. "I doubt you'll have the time nor the desire for heroics, my boy," he said. "And I'm sure Scott has been drilling the others exhaustively to work around your potential absence."

Hank actually laughed at that. "Two hours every morning in the Danger Room, before breakfast. For the last two weeks. Warren is apoplectic."

The Professor - Charles - joined with a laugh of his own, though it was muted. "Scott has his heart in the right place." He sighed. "You will be missed, Henry. But I can't imagine a greater honor for you."

"Thank you, Profess...Charles," Hank replied, suddenly feeling sheepish again. He felt his cheeks warming. But why? He was an adult, the Professor had said so. And had invited him to call him "Charles"! AND he was going to meet Reed Richards, not as the Beast but as a scientific peer!

Once again, Xavier seemed to hear the passing thought without difficulty. "Don't grow up too fast, Henry," he said gently. "Youth has its own advantages after all."

"Of course...Professor," Hank said. "If you'll excuse me?"

Xavier nodded. "Please let me know when you plan to leave. I'll have the car ready for you."

Hank was stunned. "Sir, I was planning to call a cab, you don't have too..."

"It's my pleasure," The Professor said. "Consider it a gift to my finest student."

Finest student, Hank beamed as he left his chambers. Wonder if he'll let me quote him on that. Maybe I can get it in writing....


End file.
